That dark, residual temperature from the previous night's dream that had warmed itself into the dawn and settled to walk with me.
The curse, the crow and I, walked.
We walked as, we walked with, we walked towards, and we walked away from.
'Nothing ever happens here...Something once happened here.'
There is a long corridor.
At the end of it is the toilet.
Next to it, is the no longer there room.
Haunted Homes and Haunted Writing.
Inventory of Childhood.
As a ruin, the hidden can no longer hold.
Nothing ever happens here. Something once happened here.
“And so when you have lost everything, no more roads, no direction, no fixed signs, no ground, no thoughts able to resist other thoughts, when you are lost, beside yourself, and you continue getting lost, when you become the panicky movement of getting lost, then, that’s when, where you are unwoven weft, flesh that lets strangeness come through, defenseless being, without resistance, without batten, without skin, inundated with otherness, it’s in these breathless times that writings traverse you, songs of an unheard-of purity flow through you, addressed to no one, they well up, surge forth, from the throats of your unknown inhabitants, these are the cries that death and life hurl in their combat.”
— Helene Cixous